A Stone's Throw
by Mayonaka no Ame
Summary: She may have felt a desire to strangle him as equivalently often as he wanted to handcuff her to a radiator and throw away the key. Still it was comforting to know that, should one feel the need, they will never be too far apart… Entry for "Where I Belong". Prequel scene to "Possession".
1. Part I

_Where I Belong_ entry. Prequel scene to _Possession. _Dedicated to my husband, Mathieu: master stone skipper.

_"We can throw stones, complain about them, stumble on them, climb over them, or build with them."_

**- William Arthur Ward**

**-.A Stone's Throw.-**

Part I

"For the love of…!"

Rinoa kicked the sand with fury, reasserting her regret at ever having picked up one of the darn things in the first place.

This was only meant to be a distraction after all; a method of whittling away the pre-dusk hour with something, anything, beyond _actual_ whittling. The list of alternatives had been slim and all similarly dull, so why not?

She had considered it fun once upon a time.

Unfortunately, as had become typical with many things endeavored by the sorceress, this modest hobby had somehow mutated into a masochistic test_. _The outcome of which both her happiness and her pride relied upon tonight, for reasons she didn't care to explore.

Therefore…with Hyne as her witness…she vowedshe would get at least one of these damn rocks to skip on the water if it was the last thing she did.

Dark, determined eyes scanned the beach yet again, hawk-like in their hunt for projectiles. A handful were selected and explored thoroughly with her fingertips for chips or cavities before being deemed inadequate and tossed aside. At this point an imperfect stone was simply not worth the effort, as it certainly couldn't be her pitch that was the problem. She had practically mastered the activity during her father's countless, country-villa soirees where the options had been to either 1. escape to the lakeside or 2. end up punching one, if not several, snooty politicians and/or thrice-removed relatives in the face.

She used to find it soothing.

While wiping the algae off another promising candidate, Rinoa considered that maybe it was the type of rock found here on Centra that was the source of her failure. Maybe it was too heavy? Too impermeable? Too damn stubborn to simply let go and bend to her desires for once?

Maybe, probably, she was expecting way too much out of something that was so innately inflexible.

Off in the distance, a sudden burst of flames pulled her from her admittedly tangential thought process. Rinoa almost rolled her eyes at his unsubtle method of summoning her, but knew better than to complain. On this, the third night in their "vacation"/archival dig, they had long since discovered that it was simply more efficient and, not to mention, less deadly if he set up both camp and any hot meals while she occupied herself with other things. One snapped tent pole, a blanket sacrificed to the fire and an entire box of their food supply accidentally donated to the wildlife, and she had had no choice but to agree to the arrangement.

He was simply looking out for her as he always had, every day, for the past year. It was what he was best at, sitting there in the distance, barely visible in the now dwindling twilight, silently making preparations to ensure her comfort. As always, she considered it incredibly sweet and chivalrous. And as always, she found it to be on a new, escalated level of irritating.

Looking down at her feet with a sigh, Rinoa spotted an attractively oval, white stone resting just beyond her big-toe. She bent to pick it up, cheerfully noting how it was still warm from what remained of the sun, and tossed it between her hands to evaluate its weight and balance.

Definitely light enough. Undeniably, uniformly smooth. Without a doubt it was the most promising specimen she had encountered yet. And what fortuitous timing as the sun had just begun its crawl over the ocean's edge, threatening pitch-black darkness at any second.

Not wanting to over think it and risk a misstep, Rinoa sprung upright and prepared herself. A gentle rotation, a trademarked pinch of her fingers along the stone's smooth edge, a twist, a release and then it was off! She watched with baited breath as the pale disc spun toward the water, confident that it would achieve at least eight, possibly above her record thirty-two skips before surrendering to gravity.

Alas, as soon as it hit the surface, the stone disappeared with a disheartening little splash, instantly sinking and taking her good humor along with it for the ride. She watched, nonsensically depressed, for a full minute as the last rays of sunshine surrendered to grander temptations on the other side of the world.

The battle was officially lost.

Around her the Centrian beach had become a thick pool of blackness, her only guides being the delicate glimmer of waves in one direction and the now roaring flames of the fire opposite. Rinoa shivered, considering for a moment the dark water beginning to lap at her toes and how pleasant the coolness felt.

She debated for a few seconds simply stripping off her clothes and going for a swim. It was dark enough and they were the only people around for miles and miles…who would judge? He would panic of course, and probably with good reason as she didn't have the best sense of direction and who knew what was lurking beneath the surface on this still mostly unexplored continent. At least that would be his excuse for panicking.

Rinoa giggled and shook her head, easily abandoning the idea to common sense, duty, respect and all those other annoying concepts that had kept her more audacious side in check this past year. Maybe next time. Or, more honestly, a next lifetime.

Over her shoulder, the fire cracked loudly as one of the larger logs imploded and she took it as a sign. He never liked her being out of his sight for too long, especially with only her wits for protection. It made him testy.

After one last, longing look at the water, she headed to the camp.

He didn't acknowledge her as she slumped down across the fire and hugged her knees to her chest. Unnecessary chit-chat wasn't exactly his style. Instead he only poked at the roasting rabbit that was to be their improvised supper (thanks to her little mistake of not locking the food case last night) while reviewing a notebook that rested in his lap. Taking advantage of his distraction, Rinoa sniffed curiously at the night's catch. It wasn't exactly the dehydrated and pleasantly de-carcassed stew she had been expecting to consume tonight, but it sure did beat the alternative of returning to Garden early. Silently, she praised his survival skills. Since being promoted to Commander, with all the fine dining, lavish suites and other benefits the title included, it surprised her that he could still so easily rough it.

In fact, sitting here in the fire's glow, wearing his civilian dark jeans and hooded, grey sweatshirt streaked with dirt from the day's activities, he looked more in his element than he ever would in a perfectly pressed uniform behind an ornately carved, mahogany desk. It was undeniably nice to see him as such. It was especially, unquestionably amazing to be seeing him while completely alone together for the first time since their return from time compression.

It was a thought she couldn't help but voice.

"This is nice," she whispered, leaning her head back to look up at the stars, brighter than she had ever seen on the more populated continents. "Isn't this nice?"

Squall Leonhart, Commander of Balamb Garden, 18-year-old savior of the world, certifiable genius and military strategist, could muster only a grunt in response before licking his fingers to more effectively peruse the pages of his notebook.

Rinoa frowned.

"Really?" she enquired with unavoidable annoyance. "That's it?"

Ice-blue eyes flicked up to gauge her expression only to immediately return to the task at hand. "What am I supposed to say?"

"I dunno…How about '_yes Rinoa, this is nice. It's nice that we both worked ourselves to the brink of death these past few months in order to secure this vacation time and it is most definitely nice_.' Something along those lines, hmmm? I mean, did you see the stars!? Huh? I mean…" she gestured emphatically to the sky. "Come on! It's freakin'…nice!"

Squall leaned his chin onto his palm, his fingers not quite able to hide the small smirk that sometimes, rarely, poked through whenever she unintentionally did something to amuse him. In this case, the cause was most likely her excruciating lack of synonyms for the word "nice".

Rinoa held her head up high, having long since become immune to embarrassment when it came to Commander Leonhart. There were things that happened in that office during her tenure as his assistant that could never be undone or unseen. For example, the time she spilled coffee all over the Deling ambassador's lap. Or when she sent what was meant to be a private note to Selphie as a memo to Garden's entire faculty. Or, more privately between them, the time she accidentally installed an adult-themed virus on his computer courtesy of a Kinneas email. Or the time she caught food poisoning and unexpectedly vomited half into a potted fern, half onto his boots. The list of examples was long and increasingly shameful for all those involved. In addition to such singular events, there was another, chronic source of awkwardness in the Commander's office. One that had become disturbingly typical despite genuine efforts to relent.

To put it simply, Rinoa had developed a habit of staring at him sometimes. To put it less simply, or as Selphie more accurately diagnosed, she had a frequent tendency to freeze whatever she was doing and blatantly _ogle_ for minutes on end_. _Squall would take notice of course and usually, as both a gentleman and an obstinate teenager, he'd ignore it. On other, less tolerant days, he'd toss paperclips at her head to divert her attention or send a priority text message to her communicator bluntly ordering "**Stop**." or "**Work**." or "**Coffee. Go**.". Once, he had gone so far as to position every movable object within the vast office, including lamps, chairs, plants and even artwork, onto the floor space between them just as a reminder to cut it out.

In conclusion, no, she definitely had no reason to be embarrassed in front of Squall Leonhart anymore. From him and no one else in this world, she had absolutely nothing to hide.

Sadly it was a state that was far from mutual.

"It's just," she took a deep breath to calm herself before speaking, painfully aware of how often her blabbering had led to rifts between them. "I was looking forward to this, ya know? You and me. Away from it all. I thought -I was _hoping- _ you'd finally…relax. Heh." It was impossible not to snigger at the concept once it was said out loud. This was what? The sixth or seventh time she had come to such a conclusion only to be inevitably disappointed? More so than at his aloofness, she was annoyed at herself for failing to learn.

"Never mind," she insisted with a wave of her hand, as if trying to swat the expectations away like a pesky insect. "I hear it now. How naïve of me to expect us to have some _fun_ for once."

Beneath his hand, Squall hid a frown of confusion.

_Fun?_

He officially had no idea what the word encompassed anymore. If he had ever.

Therefore, unable and unwilling to dredge up a response to her critique, an alternate route was decided. Clapping the notebook shut with one hand, Squall made a move to stand which immediately inspired Rinoa's throat to tighten, fearing that she had (yet again) gone a step too far.

"Where are you going?" she couldn't help but inquire as he brushed some errant sand from his thighs. The question may have bothered him once, irritated at having to announce his every move much like a child to its mother. But that was before.

It was habit, not callousness that encouraged him to barge straight ahead without any notice of the feelings of others. And though he was getting better, at least people had told him he was, supressing seventeen years of impregnable independence was a lot harder and slower than one would think.

"I'm almost done cataloguing all that we excavated," he explained, flipping through the pages filled with his sketches and notes. "If I finish tonight, we can move on in the morning."

"Move on? As in…go back?" It was impossible to hide the disappointment from her voice, and Squall almost smiled at how audaciously her heart was displayed on her sleeve. Almost.

"No. We still have over a week of vacation. I figured…if we've done all we can at Odin's Tower then we could, maybe, visit Edea's orphanage. Maybe."

Rinoa eyes widened, suddenly both elated and apprehensive. More on the apprehensive side actually, once she considered his alchemy-like talent of converting anything and everything into a work-related chore. Even an evening stroll to Balamb for dinner had had the primary purpose of testing out a new, more economical hot-dog supplier and its effects on digestion. "Why? What's there to excavate or hunt? Some prehistoric species of Chocobo, perhaps? Are you going to ask me to collect scat samples again? Cause it's not going to happen."

"Nothing like that," he admitted with a sigh, scratching at the back of his neck as he struggled to construct better wording for his explanation. Alas, there was no other way to say it. He met her eyes then, daring her to read more into what he was about to say than what he actually meant. "Because I thought it would be…nice."

Rinoa's stomach immediately shot up into her esophagus, nearly choking her.

There was that word again. Tonight, it seemed to be the most suitable, generic placeholder in exchange of the long list of other adjectives that neither of them were allowed to even think of let alone say out loud. _Beautiful_ could have easily pried its way in when speaking of the scenery. _Appreciated _was a no brainer. And the most dangerous of all, the one neither one of them had risked bringing into any of their conversations for the past eleven months:

_Romantic._ Everything about this, from an outsider's perspective at least, was unquestionably, heartbreakingly romantic. A whole week alone with the beach and the flower fields and the memories…

Rinoa shook her head to ward away the dangerous notion. In addition to the warning in his expression, she felt the pressure of his consciousness adding another few layers to its defenses, forcing her new power back with the slight twinge of a headache. Not that she ever dared to read his mind. Not since that first disastrous attempt anyway. So she took the mental hint and simply nodded in response.

Such an outing would indeed be "nice". Nice and nothing more.

"Fine," Rinoa said with an overly casual air as she moved to gather plates and cutlery from the pack beside them. This time Squall really couldn't avoid the grin that tugged its way onto his lips at her atrociously weak nonchalance. Of course, all evidence of amusement had escaped his expression by the time she looked up again.

"So," with two knives and two forks held in opposite, raised fists, Rinoa nodded toward the nearly blacked meat hovering above the flames. "Do you want to do the honors, or should I?"

Squall blinked. In his haste to finish with the 'official' excuse for this outing, he had completely forgotten about the catch even though it was blatantly sizzling in front of his face. "Right. Yes. I better do it. We don't have any extra gear to spare nowadays."

Rinoa stuck out her tongue, chucking the cutlery into his lap with minimal gentleness as he settled back into the grass.

Nearly a year in his service and she was now quite accustomed to both his teasing and his worrisome habit of skipping meals when in the midst of a project. It was amazing what basic needs he was able to deny his body for nearly inhuman lengths of time just to make some completely ridiculous deadline set by the World Council. She had noted a record four days in a row once where he didn't leave his desk for anything other than to go to the bathroom. And even that number of trips, she would bet gil, had been uncomfortably reduced for the sake of efficiency.

Soon enough, the rabbit was served alongside some roots Squall had dug up and boiled. It was not the most elegant of meals, but it definitely hit the spot, and he seemed revitalized after what was surely a rough night's sleep in the half collapsed tent. Of course, Rinoa had offered to occupy the one she had ruined, but he wouldn't hear of it. She had also _almost_ suggested that they share the small space in the more structurally sound shelter. Only for the sake of security and warmth of course. But that alternative was mentally laughed off way before the words could make it to her lips.

Commander Leonhart, quite famously, did not share beds with anyone. Ever.

At least they'd soon have the remnants of Edea's orphanage as a large, shared sanctuary, as well as access to running water thanks to the ancient well and pump system which could survive decades of disuse. It was a brilliant design built by Cid himself which used the natural flow of the channel water to move the pistons. Which reminded her...

"Damn," Rinoa cursed just after finishing her last bite. Squall eyed her expectantly while carefully chewing on one of the root's tougher pieces. "It's just...we'll need to cross the channel to get to Edea's from here. And I don't know about you, but I left my canoe in my _other_ purse."

Unfazed, Squall simply shook his head and returned focus to his plate. "Don't worry about it."

Rinoa cocked a suspicious eyebrow. "I kinda can't help but worry about it. Though I don't consider myself that much of a diva, swimming over a mile with all of this gear strapped to our bodies just seems a stitch too suicidal for my tastes. And what about all the stuff we gathered from Odin's rooms?"

"It's taken care of."

"What's taken care of?"

"Transport. A boat. It'll be here first thing in the morning. So on that note," after scrapping the bony remnant of his dinner into the fire, Squall stood back up. "I have some cataloging to finish."

Stunned, Rinoa watched him walk away with her own plate still clenched tightly in her grasp. It occurred to her immediately that his hiring of a boat to come to this exact, desolate location must have been done far in advance. Which meant that going to Edea's wasn't a spur-of-the-moment, informal decision stemmed from her complaints. He had planned all along that they end up there.

Why? What was he thinking? Why didn't he tell her? Would it kill the guy to let her know which corner of the planet she was to be dragged to at least twenty-four hours in advance?

There were too many questions to count. None of which she expected to get an answer for. Even if she pressed, he'd probably lash out as an automatic defense mechanism and then they'd spend the rest of this vacation time in tense, uncomfortable silence. Though they often hung out in tense, uncomfortable silences due to both their clashing personalities and the little detail of their still unresolved relationship, at least at Garden there were always distractions, other people and, most notably, other _rooms_ to be excused to.

Biting her tongue was deemed to be the only viable option in this case, though both her heart and her head were ablaze with curiosity.

A little further out from their makeshift home space, she watched him kneel down and ignite a lantern near one of their many treasure/trash boxes collected from the Centra Ruins. With a pen between his teeth and his notebook settled on his lap, Squall reached in and pulled out a long, bronze chain and locket; the one article of potential value they had found, hidden underneath a pile of rubble and therefore untouched by time and scavengers. The lamplight made its center ruby glow as Squall turned it in his hands, once again trying and failing at opening it, then proceeding to write.

Rinoa looked at her empty plate, then at Squall. Her gaze fell toward the ocean and then wandered back toward Squall. She considered the disfigured pair of tents and then Squall once again.

Before long, her feet were bringing her toward him without any excuse as to why. All she knew what that she had no desire for the night to end just yet.

_...to be continued..._

* * *

**- Author' s Note- **

Hi everyone. This prequel scene, part I, was written as an entry to the Ashbear and Emerald-Latias organized event "Where I Belong". I was quite honored to be invited and am greatly looking forward to seeing all the Squinoa related entries posted throughout the month.

I intended to post this chapter yesterday, my 26th birthday, but I was kidnapped by friends after work and only sent home much later in a...let's say, not-very-coherent state. Part II will be posted on August 23rd, Squall's birthday .

This story isn't anything special, but it was fun to step away from the drama that "Possession" has now become and explore our favorite couple's bickering roots.

Thank you again for you support.


	2. Part II

_"As in nature, as in art, so in grace; it is rough treatment that gives souls, as well as stones, their luster."_

**- Thomas Guthrie**

**-.A Stone's Throw.-**

Part II

Rinoa wrapped her arms around herself to ward away the chill as she carefully tip-toed across the plain, eager to avoid the multiple rocks and roots that seemed determined to send her sprawling. There was no way she was going to give this untamed Centrian environment the satisfaction of yet another bruise. Especially since they were scheduled to venture toward the more civilized beaches of Edea's orphanage tomorrow, slightly upping the dismal chances that she'd find an excuse for them to go swimming.

The logical side of her brain automatically scoffed at the notion, and yet it was still overshadowed by that pesky optimism which Rinoa was famous for.

After all, Squall Leonhart had done stranger things.

Once upon a time.

At the cue of her footsteps, she saw him prepare for her arrival by adjusting the position of the lantern, silently implying that she sit beside him on the tiny patch of grass instead of on the dusty earth where the treasure/trash boxes rested. She smiled at the gesture. It was these small, seemingly insignificant actions which reminded her that he cared, always conveniently staged just when she had begun to doubt.

Those late night phone calls, apparently aimed to cure the drudgery of the union breaks Cid forced upon him during missions, jolted her alert just when her computer browser started to wander over alternate employment opportunities. Requests for a lunch companion were sent to her communicator just after she stared a little too longingly at a promo for reduced train fares to faraway places. And the most prized of all, an invitation to dance (always a standard, pre-choreographed dance mind you) never failed to be solicited at the inevitable point during every Garden function when she decided she just couldn't take it anymore.

Squall always did have the best sense of timing. Or perhaps, when factoring in her overall happiness, the worst.

She could only hope, only _pray_, that it would eventually be made worth her while. And soon. A girl only had so much patience.

Rinoa shook her head to loosen the inevitable frustration of those thoughts as she hopped the final few feet to his side. Over his shoulder, she noted that Squall still had that bronze locket resting on his knee as he finished his notes, pen moving swiftly across the page as adamantly as if he were writing a time limited exam. Not writing, she realized as she came just a few inches closer, but drawing.

"Wow," she couldn't help but whisper as she settled down beside him, genuine awe invading her tone. "You're really good at that. Geez."

Squall's brows furrowed as he continued detailing the intricate metal work of the jewelry, his plain, ballpoint pen capturing the subtle tones and highlight with effortless speed and accuracy. "Does that bother you?"

"No, no. Of course not!" Annoyed at herself for having spurred their usual awkwardness with the first sentence, Rinoa struggled to explain herself. "It's just…You're talented. In many ways. Which I'm constantly discovering. That's all. You never cease to surprise me. I mean, you're just so…"

_Unbelievable? No. Too potentially offensive._

_Thorough? No. Everyone and their dog knew he was thorough._

_Great with your hands?...No! For obvious reasons._

_...Perfect?_

With a grunt of annoyance, she added a few new items to the list of things they could not say to one another. So the sentence was abandoned in limbo as she fashioned a distraction through dragging the nearest box up to her feet. It was a somewhat impolite, very Squall-inspired method of avoidance that she had picked up in the last year. Though, of course, it only worked with Squall-like people.; a category which comprised of only one individual so far.

As expected, he didn't press. Proof that one of the most suitable adjectives to describe him would forever be 'predictable'.

Peering inside the box, Rinoa took note of a few scrappy pieces of metal, some cables and what appeared to be the mummified remnants of a picnic lunch. Definitely not the standard fare you'd find showcased at the local museum.

"Do you seriously have to describe and draw all of this stuff?"

Squall nodded. "It's standard procedure. The lab will verify whether there's any point in sending a proper team to collect rare materials or significant designs. Esthar Garden is intending to set up outposts across this continent soon and we want to make sure we've studied everything there is to study before any historical sites become...'upgraded'."

Rinoa giggled, thoroughly aware and amused by Squall's barely hidden disdain for the new SeeD forces and their attempts to redraft worldwide Garden standards. It was like having an ignorant, expensive and ridiculously fashion-focused child that fought him at every turn. As the Commander's assistant, she was at the height of her usefulness when playing mediator between them, seeing as the Estharian military had yet to learn how to play nice with people beyond their borders and Squall had yet to learn to play nice with anyone, anywhere.

"They do like the new and shiny stuff over there, huh?"

"To a virtually blinding degree, yes."

"Oh! Have you seen their new uniforms yet?" It was the one standard they had simply refused to adhere to, seeing as tastes varied so drastically, and Squall had begrudgingly relented after several days of the most inane debating of his life. However, he did manage to wrangle veto power over their proposed designs and Rinoa was itching to see what they had come up with. "Are they silver? Do they light up?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"Hmm..." she pondered with an exaggerated tapping of her finger against his lips, as if deep in thought. "I wonder if it's something in their diet that's makes them find such gaudiness attractive? Maybe they suffer from frequent outbreaks of…" she paused for dramatic effect "flash-ulence?"

With a ridiculously wide, self-satisfied smile, Rinoa waited for that rare smirk of his that sometimes shone through when she said something silly. But Squall only sighed and shook his head, returning to his drawing as if offended by the lameness of her joke.

Disheartened, she quickly holstered the expression. "Okay. That was terrible. I admit it. But I actually am curious!"

"You know you could be helping me finish instead of slighting an entire culture."

"Yeah right. You've seen me draw, Leonhart. Selphie once thought my stick man was meant to be a banana."

"It's fine. The lab could use a challenge to keep them sharp. Here." He handed over his notebook and dove into the box, removing what may have once been part of a wine decanter, the head of a tonberry figurine, or a plain crystal ball. It was that vague of an item.

They both stared at it for a solid minute, Squall dusting it off while turning it this way and that, hoping for some kind of distinguishing marker. "Sooo…." Rinoa eventually interrupted, having long since grown bored. "How do we do this? What do I write? Thingamabob number five hundred and eighty three?"

Again, Squall sighed.

It seemed to be his communication method of choice these past couple of months, in addition to pressing his forehead into his palm or ignoring her completely. Maybe next year, if incredibly lucky, she'd be upgraded to grumbling.

For the thousandth time in her short yet eventful Garden-life, Rinoa wondered what the heck she saw in a guy like him and why she bothered to stick around.

True, he was effortlessly, almost unnaturally attractive. Especially so because he seemed completely unaware of the fact. She remembered the one time they went to get a drink together in Dollet, if only because they had a presentation to make the next morning and his hotel room's wireless was unforgivably shoddy. After a keycard was slipped onto their table by an especially sultry looking patron, the oblivious Commander, without batting an eye or even looking up for his laptop, tossed it onto a passing waiter's tray with a curt 'someone lost this'.

She honestly didn't know whether she should slap him for being so indifferent or hug him for managing to remain so abnormally naive.

Yes, his looks were definitely a factor. But that couldn't be _everything_.

On the other hand, maybe it was his talents that drew her to him? No doubt about it, she had a disturbing weakness for decorated soldiers (which she didn't dare ever psychoanalyze), and Squall was the best of the best.

Perhaps it was his intelligence? She did love to watch him debate with seasoned politicians, bombarding them with a slew of the facts scrounged from the most obscure law texts to inevitably win every argument (barring the Estharian 'battle of the belts' fashion crisis). It made her feel proud to be working alongside such a wunderkind.

Undeniably, they were forever linked simply through having survived such an ordeal side by side. He would always be her hero, her knight. But the title didn't necessarily hold a romantic affiliation, taking Seifer and Edea as a recent example. It was a position that could be filled by anyone brave, strong and trustworthy. She had even heard of a past case where a female had accepted the role to support her childhood friend. The Sorceresses of old used to choose their protectors via impersonal tournaments.

No. None of those reasons alone could excuse the months she had spent torturing herself to remain both in his presence and available.

What had most likely sealed the deal of her fixation, to her never ending chagrin, would be the _incident_ of course.

The party after Time Compression.

The memory unwittingly caused her to smile and start twirling a lock of hair around her finger. Suddenly back to the giddy schoolgirl persona she could have easily, permanently assumed had fate blessed her with a ordinary childhood.

Of all the good-looking, skilled, intelligent, brave men she had met in her life, not one of them had come close to making her feel like that. It was what set him apart. In that one night, that one instance of his damn propriety flickering out of commission, she had instantly become an addict. Something about the rarity of his passion that made it all the more...passionate. For lack of a better word.

Despite all this, it disturbed her to notice how vain all these answers were. All properties certain women would seek in a pedestal husband to keep them comfortable until old age or, on the other end of the spectrum, a one-night, danger-delight mainly to provoke their fathers' attention. Neither of which was even close to her goals. Not that she had any goals. Not that she even had any real purpose anymore…

"Rinoa?"

"Hmm?" As if reading her thoughts, he interrupted before her mind delved a little too deep into that dangerous subject. Perfect timing, as always.

He was looking at her with what seemed to be a combination of exhaustion and pity, the unlabeled artifact still being rolled between the fingers of one hand while the other went through his hair and down to the back of his neck.

"Screw it," his finally whispered after an intense few seconds of staring. The possible decanter/tonberry head/ball was chucked back into its box and the lid replaced all before Rinoa was able to remember how her lips functioned to form words. "You're right. I'll deal with it when we get back."

At this, Rinoa could not help but adopt an incredulous expression. Of all the adjectives to describe Squall Leonhart, 'procrastinator' was definitely not one of them. "That's not very Commanderly of you, ya know?"

"I'm on vacation," he justified while falling back into the grass, his hands forming a pillow behind his head. "I don't have to be Commander-like."

"I said _Commanderly._"

"And I choose to ignore your continual abuse of language."

"Tch. You're no fun."

"I'm aware."

Contrary to the declaration, Rinoa could not help but chuckle as she leaned back to join him horizontally.

Trying not to be obvious, she watched from the corner of her eye as he gazed up at the stars. Seemingly peaceful but also, inexplicably, a little lost. Hyne, he was difficult to read sometimes. Well, he had _always_ been difficult to read. But more so than usual as of late. Which was strange since Garden and the World Council affairs had finally started running smoothly thanks to thousands of hours of unyielding meetings, drafts, reviews, phone calls and fights. He should currently be showing signs of whatever his version of 'festive' was. Even if all that included was grimacing slightly less often.

"What are you thinking about?"

Damn. She regretted the stupid questions as soon as it left from her lips, knowing how he'd hate such a vague and pointless examination. As much as he had been trying to open up more over the past year, she had been attempting the opposite. Tonight, both were failing miserably. It was against both their natures.

Water and stone could not simply decide to trade characteristics.

As expected, the Commander didn't respond at all for long, increasingly awkward seconds, apparently having to think about what he was thinking about; an activity only Squall would practice.

"Honestly," he began at last, taking a deep breath as if debating some remarkable secret. "…Pudding."

At this revelation, Rinoa could not help but roll her head to the side and glare at him. "I was _trying_ to be serious."

"I am serious. I'm not the best of cooks with or without the wilderness factor. The thought of another week with similar meals to tonight is depressing. So I'm thinking of pudding. The dark chocolate one they serve in the cafeteria on Tuesdays. Is that so strange?"

He turned his head to match her stare then, pale-blue eyes strangely bright as they reflected the night sky. She saw there not an ounce of teasing or mirth, just the usual confusion that appeared whenever they forayed into subjects beyond charts and legislature. He had told her what he was thinking about, a question he assumed had no regulations, and still she seemed disgruntled with the answer. Would he ever figure out how to satisfy her?

"Hmm," as if gauging whether his reasons were acceptable, she pressed her lips together and studied his face. Though it happened by coincidence, this was in fact the closest she had been to him since that night many months ago. He was still every bit the healthy, young soldier as before, but the tell-tale signs of stress had made their mark, gruesomely highlighted in the flickering lamplight. There were dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones were more prominent, his lips appeared pale and chapped and yet, seeing as they were but mere centimeters away, as tempting as always.

"I guess you are human after all," she whispered, revealing a slow, sly smile. Her fingers, as if they had a will on their own, found themselves beginning to inch towards him. And it wasn't his penchant for the rare, sugary snack that she was hoping to infringe upon tonight.

All he had to do…was let it happen.

"You know I am," he abruptly responded with no hint of humor. In fact, he seemed perturbed by the statement. As if admitting a handicap. "Of all people, you know best."

Something in his tone instantly sobered her. Enough so that the eager hand fell flat, like a dying fish, in the valley between their bodies. Returning her gaze to the sky, she took a deep, shaky breath.

If ruining the moment had been a sport, Squall would be a record-breaking champion. He'd even get extra points for invoking complete and utter abandonment of the cause.

No wonder he excelled at politics.

"I'm tired," she confessed to the stars. They would know what she meant.

"You should go to bed then."

Rinoa breathed harshly and let her eyes flutter closed. "In a minute."

With all the power she possessed, she tried to forget that anyone named Squall Leonhart existed let alone messed with her emotions so. It was a nice, much less confusing place. Though not far away enough from reality that she was able to completely relax.

She didn't know how long they lay there, but she remembered the sounds of the crashing waves as the tide came in, the crickets beginning their midnight symphony and the sizzle of the lantern extinguish when it ran out of oil.

She dreamed that night.

* * *

She dreamed of them dancing. The warmth of his hand covering her own, so strangely life-life, as they spun across the floor.

She dreamed of them laughing like they used to. In that amazing few days before the true plight of the world's government was revealed and all of it, unsolicited, was thrust upon his still healing shoulders.

She dreamed of him holding her and how warm, safe and Hyne-damn _happy_ she had felt in that moment as she fell asleep in his arms.

This wasn't right.

This wasn't fair!

This wasn't-

* * *

Rinoa's eyes popped open as a seagull let loose a wailing cry. Judging from the volume, she could only deduce that it was perched either on her left shoulder or had made a nest out of her tangled hair. Neither was a reassuring option.

"GAH!" Instantly, she shot upright with furiously waving hands to scare the animal away, only to discover that she was protected by the walls of her tent and the offending bird was but a lonely silhouette far off in the distance. Taking a moment to blink away the grogginess and catch her breath, Rinoa eventually surveyed her surroundings, her last memories of lying in the grass contradicting uneasily with the current situation. Especially since her boots, socks, jacket and even hair tie had all been removed and were neatly piled near the foot of her sleeping bag. And she _never_ neatly piled anything. It was practically against her religion.

"Squall?" she called tersely while fumbling with tent's fabric doors, unsure if she was more angry that he had handled her without permission or that he had done so only after she lost consciousness. "Squall! What the he-"

Words failed her as their campsite was revealed. At least, it was what used to be their campsite.

Though the first glimmers of sunrise had barely begun their climb over the horizon, all signs of their presence had mysteriously vanished save for Rinoa's single dwelling. The other tent, the picnic set, the dig equipment…all gone. Even the fire pit had been so perfectly filled and packed down, its perimeter rocks scattered, that she couldn't have pinpointed the original location if someone had an Exeter aimed at her head.

It was disappointment, not panic as would be expected, that first invaded Rinoa's thoughts. After all, ever since he had first asked if she would like to join him on a far away excavation project _alone_, it was known that he'd eventually recognize the implications and have some sort of quiet freak out. Ideally this would have happened before they actually left the premises, but she still couldn't blame him for having a slow-moving mind on this one matter out of the thousands vying for dominance in his head. He was, as reiterated last night, only human.

And so Rinoa did the only thing she could do. She sat back on her heels and waited, knowing he'd eventually realize that leaving her stranded in a wasteland wasn't the most sympathetic of breakdowns and, at the very least, send someone to get her. He had the satellite communicator on him. Any SeeD with a license to drive Ragnarok could be here within three hours. Selphie, with her 'special' piloting skills, could do it in one.

She had just finished writing her name into the sand without the use of her hands (a magic exercise she frequently practiced when boredom struck) when something hit her. Not physically, but within the hazy pond of her mind's eye. It was as if a boulder had been thrown into the waters, rippling her entire conscious so that she could focus on nothing else. Her new power acted sort of like an emotional radar that, when pushed to limits she didn't dare exercise, allowed her to translate such pings into actual audible sentences.

With a quick breath, she hoisted her defences before any actual words could reach conversion. Ever since she had discovered this power, it had become her immediate habit to block it out. Especially after one too many times of accidentally catching one of Irvine's wandering opinions. Besides, since she had confessed to the SeeD admins, they had all been trained to tell when and if their thoughts were being invaded. For Rinoa, there was neither the desire nor point in delving into anyone's secrets. But still, sometimes, if she was listless and someone around her was sending out powerful enough signals, it couldn't be avoided.

In this instance, though her mind has succeeded in censoring the words, it thrilled her to note - to _recognize_ - the emotional power of the blast. It was familiar cocktail of frustration, anxiety, anger and just a touch self-loathing. Simple but potent. Enough to make her wince as it always did the few times he forgot to shield himself.

He was still close. Thank goodness.

After jumping to her feet and taking a few steps closer toward the water, Rinoa was able to make out a hazy silhouette off on the eastern curve of the beach that had been invisible in the twilight. There stood what could only be Squall along with the heaping pile of their gear. She smirked while shaking her head, berating herself for having doubted. After all, abandoning her would have meant he had succumbed to _feelings_; a reaction which was as likely as him raising the white flag to a bite bug.

Within ten minutes, Rinoa was changed, had her tent and sleeping bag mashed into her pack and was on her way toward the beach just as the sun revealed the entire, serene setting. Despite the summer heat that had inspired her to wear only jean shorts and a simple white tank top, she observed that Squall was covered in heavy leather and utility belts including his now famous fur-lined jacket.

Most people would have categorized him as insane or overly modest for constantly covering himself, always choosing caution over comfort. But Rinoa was well versed in his every idiosyncrasy. She knew about the scars covering most of his body, faded but still notable, from their battle with Ultimecia which he preferred not to publicize. She knew that every day since they had returned, he felt an impermeable chill that made it hard to concentrate without nearing a heat source. She knew that leather made him feel safe, untouchable, as if any verbal and physical abuse tossed his way would merely bounce off harmlessly. She knew that he may very well fall to pieces without some fragment of armor, whether his blade or his SeeD uniform or his griever necklace, to metaphorically hold him together.

Rumor had it that his experiences in Time Compression had made him, literally, cold blooded. Perhaps that was true. It only made her more determined to, eventually, force some warmth into his veins.

"Good morning!" she called when within earshot, eagerly waving a hand above her head. Squall, in the midst of bending over to retrieve something from the beach, turned to acknowledge her.

Dutifully, she slowed her steps as he scanned her from head to toe. From most men, she would have considered such a look to be salacious, but Squall was most likely just making sure wasn't wearing anything that would make it easier to drown.

"Morning," he called back while completing his task of swiping something from the sand and standing up. He gave her another once over as she completed the final few steps and his eyes narrowed critically. "You're going get cold."

"No, I'm not." With a grunt, Rinoa threw her pack onto the mound of stuff awaiting pickup and then slapped her hands free of dirt. "It's like 20 degrees and getting warmer. It's you that is going to boil."

"Layers," he explained, gesturing to the v-neck, white t-shirt visible at his collar. Though both of them knew the likely hood of him relinquishing any garment was slim to none. "Key to wilderness travelling. I swear I've told you this a million times."

"So you have. Probably."

"Then get a jacket, just in case. How about the waterproof one I bought you?"

Rinao cringed, stealing a glance at her pack whilst recalling the barely restrained chaos contained within. "I'd rather just take my chances."

"We're going on a boat. You'll get wet."

"Maybe I like being wet?"

At that point, with one final, pointed glare, Squall conceded by turning his back to her. Rinoa smirked.

Too easy.

They stood in silence for a few moment as the sun finalized its climb over the horizon, bathing them both in a wave of golden heat which instantly caused Rinoa to break into sweat. To no one's surprise, Squall remained impervious.

"The boat is late," he muttered while rotating something between his fingers. "Remind me not to tip."

"It doesn't matter, does it? Not like we have any appointments at our next desolate location."

"True. It's just..." he made a sudden movement that was quick and fierce. Like any other of his perfectly calculated attacks. She was barely able to register the throw before it was complete and the object, a stone, went sailing over the beach. In a perfect, fluid arc it hit the water and immediately bounced. It bounced further and swifter than she had ever seen in a succession of at least six, beautiful skips before being swallowed by the sea.

"Annoying," he finished his original sentence, eyes down and already searching for new quarry. "Punctuality is a basic requirement of such businesses. I expect that at the very least."

Rinoa wished to respond, but she found that her jaw was fixed open and unable to do anything more than flap open and closed like a fish.

It was impossible.

Two days. A full two days she had been trying to get any and every type of rock from this beach to prance upon the water and she had failed. It had to be a fluke. Beginner's luck. No one was _that_-

As if to spite her thoughts, Squall bent down and picked up another, seemingly random victim from the beach. With no more than a second's consideration, he tossed it toward the ocean. Again, it worked. Even better this time with the previous practice. A full ten skips. Rinoa's arms crossed over her chest with barely concealed anger.

This was ridiculous.

"You're doing it wrong," she couldn't help but criticise with attempt nonchalance as he bent down for another stone. "Your stance is too short, your throws too weak and, quite frankly, your clothes are too constricting for a fluid enough toss."

Squall met her eyes and shot her with one of those confident smirks that set her teeth on edge as well as her heart a-flutter. "I didn't know I was being graded, Miss Heartilly."

"You're not. I just know you. And I know if you want to do something, you want to do it right. Right?"

Squall nodded. "Most of the time, yes. But I don't usually apply such principles to things most practiced by grade-schoolers. No one _trains_ to create the most impressive spitball."

"Spitballs. Grenades. Consider them sisters. You're the one who taught me that nothing is worth doing if you don't do it well. Now spread your legs further."

The commander raised an incredulous eyebrow but, upon seeing not a hint of humor in her eyes, did as she commanded. His chosen ammunition remained clenched tightly within his grasp.

"Now," Rinoa dared to take a step closed, uncharacteristically all business as she grasped his hand and forced it to his chest. "This is the height you want to stay at. Approximately a 35 degree angle from the ground. This is because of air drag. If there wasn't any, if you were throwing on a placid lake, you'd want to be at 45. Either way, it should hit the water at approximately 10-20 degrees. Got it?"

Again, he nodded, this time while taking an exaggerated gulp of air. "Got it."

"Good. You should also be perpendicular to the lake." Without thinking, she reached for his hips in order to position them, but Squall foresaw and dodged the maneuver.

"I know what perpendicular means," he grumbled as if angry, but an unavoidable blush touched his cheeks as he moved into position. Rinoa smiled at the evidence that he, in fact, couldn't be cold-blooded.

"Fine. Good. Now you have to choose a proper stone of course. One that is smooth and flat, without any imperfections."

She glanced down at the one in his hands and immediately scowled. "That one definitely won't do."

Squall opened his palm and looked down at his chosen cohort with confusion. It was flat. It was smooth. Not perfect of course, with the odd rivet and scratches, but definitely good enough. "This one will be fine," he insisted while placing his fingers in what he felt were the most natural positions for a toss. But Rinoa was oddly strict about this one element.

"Not good enough," she insisted, her eyes scanning the beach for a suitable alternative. "The imperfections will catch the waves and make it sink. There's no point."

"There's no point anyway," he countered. "We're throwing rocks, not performing surgery."

"Don't you want to do this properly?"

"Considering the point of this is to waste time, we are doing it properly. Just show me how to toss the thing if you're such a master."

"Leonhart..." she grumbled.

"Heartilly..." he threw back.

They stared each other down for a solid minute, daring one another to break. Seeing no other choice if she wanted to leave this place before the next century, Rinoa soon choose to indulge him, fully expecting failure. She stepped beside him, closer than she had ever dared before, and reached around to cover his imperfect stone with her own hands.

This time he didn't push her away. He just stood there, as solid as a statue, and let her do her work.

"Your thumb and your index finger," she began, taking the specific digits in either hand. "Should be on the thin edge, pinching it from opposite sides. You feel that? Is it secure?"

After a deep breath, he nodded. "Yes."

"Good. Now...you have to be closer to the water, first." Together, they staggered a few feet down the beach until the tide was nearly at their toes. "As I said, legs wide and perpendicular. 25 degrees above the water. Throw hard and throw fast. Spin is more important than speed. Now just...go!"

With timing worthy of his reputation, Squall did as she commanded with perfect execution. The stone landed at the ideal 10 degree angle on the water and skipped not once, not twice, but an absolutely outstanding twenty-six times. JUST below her record after both years of practice and competitions with all the local boys of Deling city. She could do nothing more but watch with wide, dumfounded eyes as he took a relaxed step back onto the beach and shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes glued on the waves.

"Hmm," he mumbled after an oddly long silence. "Who would have thought...you were right."

Instant annoyance at his apparent shock was enough to snap her out of it. "And why do you sound so surprised?"

"Because of the rock thing." He bent down then to select yet another random stone from the beach, lifting it up between pinched fingers for them both to analyze. Much like his previous selection, this one was smooth and flat but riddled with scratches and divots marring it's candidacy. "You said you need a perfect stone or there's no point. I disagree."

Again, Rinoa crossed her arms over her chest to show defiance. "You haven't been doing this as long as I have. I prefer not to base output on luck."

"It's far from luck," he explained, throwing the stone into the air and snatching it back. "The marks are what make it perfect, I find. It's much easier to hold onto and get a good spin as opposed to a perfectly smooth stone. Here," he tossed it toward her and she had no choice but to clumsily catch it. With a smirk, he nodded toward the ocean. "You try. Throw it."

Though her initial reaction was to drop the thing, roll her eyes and call him crazy, Rinoa swallowed all such offensive compulsions and dared to believe. Without further ado, she sprung into position and prepared herself. A gentle rotation, a trademarked pinch of her fingers along the stone's rough edge, a twist, a release and then it was off! She watched with baited breath as the pale disc spun toward the water.

At long last, it bounced once. And then twice. Rinoa's smile neared painful limits as it went on three, eight, fifteen, twenty, twenty-six, thirty-THREE times! Above her record! She couldn't believe it! In fact, she didn't believe it.

"Squall!" she screeched at a near inhuman volume, both sides of his jacket wrenched in her grasped as she yanked him closer. "Tell me now. How many times did that skip?"

"Thirty-six," he confirmed with confusion-filled eyes, unsure of why it mattered.

"Thirty-six!" she yelled, followed by an unnaturally high-pitched giggle which she quickly tried to censor with her hand. "Sorry. I just- I can't believe it! Thirty-six! All my life..." with tremendous effort, she swallowed the rant about how breaking that record had been the complete focus of her childhood ever since her mother died. She didn't want him to know how many hours she had spent on so many lakeshores simply trying to crack the mystery of her lack of improvement. Quite frankly, it was compulsive and slightly insane behavior that no one should freely broadcast. Especially to someone you hoped would, eventually, accept you as a partner.

Therefore, with great effort, she released his jacket and smoothed out the wrinkles her grip had made. Pretending he had confirmed nothing more thrilling than her shoe size.

"You were right," you conceded, still avoiding his eyes as she dusted invisible sand from his sleeves. "A damaged one ended up being perfect. More than perfect. To think of all the time I wasted looking-"

Without warning, his hand sprung out the clasp hers just as she began brushing off his shoulder. Rinoa's widened eyes shot up to his, both scared and, inexplicably, energized. Another wave of emotion permeated her mind, stronger than ever at this close range. And though, as was habit, she blocked out a proper translation, the emotions present were a somewhat muddled mix than usual. The expected frustration and anxiety was there, but it seemed to stem from somewhere else this time. It was something long hidden, buried deep within him that was trying to claw its way out. Something fierce and primal that he was struggling to restrain but just beginning to give up.

The sheer force of it pushing again whatever barrier frightened her a little. But only a little. More so, she longed to see it released. Just to see what would happen. No matter what the cost.

With a deep breath, she watched as he leaned in a little closer.

But no. He wouldn't do that. It was the heat, she decided, that was messing with her mind. She could feel it begin to consume her, the sun on her skin creating instant droplets of sweat wherever it touched. His hand on hers shifted to thread their fingers together. He was cold as ice, even through the leather of his gloves. So very enjoyable. What she wouldn't give to have that coolness encase her shoulders, her calves...her _everywhere_.

"Rinoa," he whispered, his voice having adopted a low, guttural tone she hadn't heard in nearly a year.

A single, eardrum-shattering blast interrupted the moment.

If there was indeed a moment to interrupt. As casually as if he did such a thing every day, Squall slowly brought both their hands down between them before releasing his grip. With nothing more than an apologetic twitch of his lips, he then moved toward their pile of luggage, leaving Rinoa dumbstruck staring out into the ocean.

After a few blinks to clear her head, she noticed the small yacht emerging from the dawn's fog and heading straight toward them. Another blast of its horn and it was confirmed to be the evil disrupter. Late, but not nearly late enough.

Damn it.

"Rinoa," Squall called, all traces of closeness having vanished. With a sigh, she turned to face him, fully expecting a barked command to either repack her bag properly or, maybe, saunter out into the surf to wave to boat down. She wouldn't have put either past him.

Instead though, to her shock and delight, he handed over his most precious possession; his gunblade case. The weight of it caused her to stumble a bit, but as she regained her footing she stared at him with widened, incredulous eyes.

Again, as he only did for her when she did something amusing or silly, Squall smiled.

Hyne forgive her for her idiocy, but she would forgive anything if only for the chance of seeing that smile.

"An eye and eye," he stated before amiably patting the case. "You taught me how to skip stones. Maybe, if you're up for it, I could teach you some defensive manoeuvres once we get to Edea's. You in?"

Rinoa blinked. To Squall, messing with his gunblade was more imposing than touching any other part of him. It was enough to strike fear into the heart of any hot blooded creature. Not to mention the fact that Quisitis and Cid had been pretty adamant that, as a civilian without any proper training, she make genuine efforts to avoid messing with the weaponry available to Garden residents.

Despite this, she couldn't help but be curious. And it was Squall, the Commander, making the suggestion. Not some random, malicious student. And maybe, just maybe, this "training" was a pretense. Seeing how the stone throwing had almost ended up, maybe...just maybe...

"Yes or no Rinoa," he interrupted with impatience, seeing as the yacht was less than a minute away. "It's not that difficult of a question."

"Yes!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, hugging the case to her chest as if it were a cherished stuffed animal. "Of course, yes! Th-thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he responded with a smirk. "Let's hope you don't shoot yourself."

And with that, he ran down back down the beach, gesturing to the mound of stuff they had waiting for pick up. With the ease of a man who spent more hours moving than sitting, Squall hefted two of the largest packs onto his shoulders and went to meet the small water craft in the surf.

Alone with her thoughts for a much needed minute, Rinoa leaned her head against the griever symbol adorning the case and sighed a sigh of genuine contentment.

A whole week of vacation left together, this time without the distraction of an excavation project, and the promise of a heart-racing battle simulation in the coming day.

Rinoa smiled.

She could hardly wait.

* * *

**-. Author's Note .-** YES! Made the deadline with a day to spare. Though I know I said I would post this part II on Squall's birthday, then sickness occurred and husband being away on business led to sleeplessness blah blah. It's done! Though a little more rushed than I would prefer, I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for sticking with it despite the lack of typical fluff. I do so enjoy writing them squabble. Go Squinoa forever.

Thank you organizers of the "Where I Belong" Challenge. It was an honor and a privilege.


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